(Title from the Chumbawama song Tubthumping.)
Special thanks to Selene for the gorgeous artwork for this story.
-Nominations Received-
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He should call Angel.
Doyle’s first thought on descending into the dimly-lit demon bar was how very much he wanted to get completely knackered. He’d gone through the whole hellacious day, the searching for the ring and for Angel and for Spike, with a hangover that rivaled the aftermath of a vision for sheer agony. It may have been twelve hours too late for the hair of the dog, but he’d gladly start in on a whole new buzz if it would offer some sort of break from the incessant drumming inside his skull.
His second thought, however, ran more down the *Oh buggering hell* path, because as soon as the door slammed close and his eyes adjusted to the smoky darkness, he recognized a platinum glint at the other end of the bar. His simple, drunken night had just gotten far more complicated.
His third thought was that he really should call Angel.
He tried to just duck back out the door—really, he did—but Manny had already spotted him from behind the bar, and his “Doyle! Been a while!” rang out, effectively eliminating any opportunity for escape. The most he could hope for now was that Spike wouldn’t look up, or that, if he did, his beer goggles would distort Doyle’s features enough as to make him unrecognizable.
“Well, well, well. If it isn’t Angel’s little mick of a sidekick. Fancy meeting you here.” Doyle didn’t even have to see to be certain from whom the remark came; even if he hadn’t noticed the vampire’s presence when he first stepped inside, the voice was one that he had come to recognize despite the relatively short time that Spike’s presence in L.A. had been a known factor. Hard to forget anything about the man—well, vampire—who had threatened gleefully to rip out your spine, really.
“Spike,” Doyle answered warily, keeping close to the door as the vampire approached. The swagger that so characterized him was a bit off, sort of wavery, and Doyle realized that Spike had a few hours on him in the pursuit of drunkenness. That dropped his defenses the tiniest bit—surely he could hold his own against a staggering-drunk vamp.
*And apparently not,* he thought as he found himself pinned against the door, amber eyes and bared fangs inches from his face.
“He… took… my… ring,” Spike ground out, using his grip on Doyle’s shirt to slam him back against the wall. “I want it back. You’re going to help me.”
It looked for a moment like Manny might have grown a pair, that he was coming around the bar to separate the potential combatants, but a swivel of Spike’s head and a furious snarl in his direction sent him scurrying back behind the bar to resume drying glasses. *Francis old man, you’re on your own.*
“I’d love to help—really I would,” Doyle started, only to be shoved back against the brick yet again. “OK, no, I really wouldn’t, but there’s nothin’ I can do to help you. Ring’s gone.”
“What do you mean, ‘ring’s gone’? Where the hell did the ring go?” Spike growled, confusion peeking through the drunken fury for a moment before a slow, sly smile shaped his features and his hands loosened fractionally, enough for Doyle to get a deep breath. “Wait a minute. He’s run off back to Fluffy, hasn’t he? Gone off to frolic in the daisies and snog in the sunshine, yeah? He thinks I can’t take them both on?”
“Well, he would be invincible with the ring, so I’m thinking no, he wouldn’t exactly be shakin’ in his boots,” Doyle answered smartly, kicking himself when Spike’s fists tightened in his shirt, once again obstructing his airway. *Thinkin’ before you speak might mean you get out of here alive,* he thought ruefully, making a choking noise as he tried to convey apologies with his eyes. At least all the running afoul of loan sharks had been good practice; he knew to take shallow breaths and look pleading, and could do it like a pro.
Spike was willing to let the smart-assed little leprechaun choke, really, until one word broke through the haze of booze and fury and stood out. Gaze suddenly sharp and predatory, he took a step back and removed one hand from its tangle of garishly-patterned fabric and watched dispassionately as Doyle gasped for breath. Once a bit of the red had gone from the other man’s face, he tilted his head appraisingly, human features back in place and smirk in full effect. “You said would be invincible. Not is.”
Doyle’s eyes widened as he took in the vampire’s words, and he thought back frantically over his words. As the full effect of them washed over him, he closed his eyes briefly as he mentally kicked himself. *Piss.* “Well, now, it’s all semantics, innit? Would, is… they’re just words. Interchangeable an’ all.”
“Really not,” Spike answered, grin cocky, now certain that he was on to something. “How ‘bout,” he continued, tugging Doyle forward and wrapping an arm around his shoulder in a gesture far more to do with control than friendship, “we sit down and share us a bottle? We can have a nice, long discussion about exactly where my gem’s gone an’ why Angel hasn’t scarpered off into the non-immolating sunset wearin’ it jus’ yet, yeah?”
~*~*~*
“I can’t believe the stupid, ridiculous bastard busted the gem,” Spike groaned as he poured another shot, emptying yet another bottle and throwing it at Manny by way of ordering a replacement. “Are you sure? Maybe he was jus’ puttin’ on…”
“Course I’m sure. He’s got no call to lie to me. You, yeah. But not me.” Doyle reached up to catch the Jack Daniels that came soaring over from the bar, rather surprised as his hand actually made contact with the bottle that his motor control was still that good. The fact that his fingers couldn’t maintain their grip and the bottle slid down his arm to the table rather than being placed there didn’t register. There was replacement alcohol—that was all that mattered.
“He really is jus’ the most intolerable git,” Spike complained as he picked at the protective plastic of the new bottle, squinting blearily at it as it defied his efforts at removal. Finally, shrugging, he allowed his features to shift and nicked the offending layer with a fang, smirking smugly as the plastic dropped harmlessly to the table.
Doyle couldn’t stop the drunken giggle that rose in his throat as he watched the vampire across from him gloat so obviously over something so minor. “Good to see that killer instinct’s still intact,” he remarked, fresh giggles bursting forth at the furious glare Spike gave him in return.
“You might want to watch your mouth,” Spike growled answeringly, “else you’ll be findin’ out first hand more’n you want to know about my killer instinct.”
“Oh, come on,” snorted Doyle, bravado enhanced by the significant amount of liquid courage he’d consumed in the previous hour. “I’m not some pansy human, you know. I’m half-demon.”
“Yeah, right. Of course you are,” came the dismissive reply.
“Don’ believe me?” Doyle asked, taking a deep breath and allowing his features to shift, gritting his teeth at the strange, itching pain he always felt as the spines emerged. He held the change for only a moment before allowing it to slide away, smirking at the slightly befuddled look on his companion’s face.
Spike hadn’t really believed that Angel’s little minion was part demon, not until he was confronted with the evidence, but even so, it made sense. Had to take either supernatural beings or preternatural bitches to put up with Angel for any real length of time—explained how his grandsire had ended up with his drinking buddy and Cordelia as groupies.
“All right, then. So you’re half demon, an’ I’m three-quarters pissed. Don’ care. Could still rip your spine out if I had half a mind, so watch your gob,” Spike warned as he splashed out two new glasses worth of drink, hands long since unsteady. “So, explain to me again why my masochistic son of a bitch grandsire destroyed the gem? I really just can’t hear this enough.”
“Whole list of noble reasons. Ridiculous shite, if you ask me. Which he didn’t… never does,” Doyle grumbled, slamming back his shot and wincing at the burn of the alcohol before grabbing for the bottle again. “Was he always so damn insufferable? I mean, you’d think me havin’ a line to the Powers would make him think that I got some standin’, but no. He knows best. Always. Even when he’s pullin’ the most ridiculous load of bollocks you’ve ever seen…”
“He’s always been that way, mate. ‘s nothin’ to do with you—he was an obnoxious wanker from day one. ‘Spike, my boy,’ this, and ‘my women’ that. Always had to be the bleedin’ cock of the walk. An’ with the soul? He’s just the ponciest ass that ever there was… ‘course you know that better’n me, I expect.”
Doyle nodded eagerly, happy to have an understanding audience to whom he could air his frustrations. “Got any tips on puttin’ up with ‘im? ‘Cause I gotta say, sometimes he could try a priest.”
“An’ other times he just eats them,” Spike chuckled, sobering when Doyle didn’t join in the laughter, choosing to stare incredulously instead. “Vamp humor,” he mumbled, almost apologetically, before biting his lip thoughtfully. “But really… Want my advice?” At the other man’s nod, he continued, “jus’ let him blow ‘n rant ‘n do his thing, an’ be ready to pull his ass out of the fire. ‘s all you can do—he won’t let you do anythin’ else. An’ when all else fails, make contingency plans of your own.”
“Hear hear,” Doyle toasted drunkenly, clapping his glass against Spike’s hard enough to displace some of the liquid from both containers. They sat in a silence that was comfortable enough, if not exactly affable, for a few moments before Spike straightened and looked at Doyle askance.
“Wait a tick. Why am I helpin’ you again?”
“Not helpin’. Commiseratin’. Whole different feel to it,” Doyle answered, and it apparently seemed a good enough excuse for Spike, given that he settled back into his seat.
“So…” Spike asked after another few moments of silence. “You had to hear him sing yet?”
~*~*~*
Doyle’s eyes blinked blearily open, barely slitting before he groaned and shut them again. The tiny amount of ambient sunlight streaming through the casement windows was like a knife straight into his brain, and he moved to roll over before realizing that he was sitting up. Confused, he let his hands do the exploring he couldn’t bear to allow his eyes to do, groping blindly until he recognized that he was leaned forward against something hard and wooden and sitting on something plastic-covered. A few moments of pained remembrance and the night before came back to him—the bar, the near-fight with Spike, the tentative détente, the endless parade of bottles they’d consumed between them. Christ, why had he thought he could match a vampire drink for drink? God, he really was daft….
His stomach dropped as he realized that he must have passed out at some point, and he hesitantly brought his hand up to his neck, certain that he’d find bite marks.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” an annoyed voice came, far too loudly, through the silence. “Like I’m wanker enough to try an’ bite another demon? No offense, but demon blood usually tastes like acid, mate. Not somethin' I typically want in my mouth.”
“OK then,” Doyle mumbled, raising his head and groaning as everything seemed to swim around him. “How long’ve I been out?”
“Don’ know. Jus’ came round myself,” Spike answered, looking much the worse for wear, Doyle noted with no small amount of satisfaction. The vampire stood gingerly and began to shrug into his duster, wincing from the movement.
“Not to point out the obvious, but it does seem that the sun’s shining,” Doyle said, pointing towards the window.
“Yeah,” Spike answered slowly, the internal rolling of his eyes audible in his voice. “You call yourself a demon an’ you don’ know how I can get around town in the light of day? You need to get out more.”
Doyle just glared at him, deciding that a wordless response was more eloquent than anything his addled, aching brain could come up with at the moment.
“So ‘m off. If you need to tell the Brooding Avenger anythin’ about me, jus’ make up somethin’ right menacing, yeah? Don’ have the energy to do it myself at the mo,” Spike called back over his shoulder as he walked towards the back room door.
“Don’t think you want to come back here, Spike,” Doyle warned.
“Oh, please. I’ve had enough of the ponce for a while… but it won’t do to tell him that, right? So jus’ tell him whatever if you have to. But me to you… when I said I’m off, I meant it.”
The slamming of the door signaled the futility of any retort, and Doyle dropped his head back to the blessedly cool, worn surface of the table. In a few minutes, he’d get up and leave, stumble home and sleep it off. And after that, he’d make that call to Angel.